The Path to the Volcano

Up we went, mother and I
under one black umbrella,
her speckled hands
gripped the bamboo handle,
slick with drizzle and sweat.

Mine stacked above hers
could be as old,
one brown spot appearing
on the left knuckle,
years of bleach water
whipped the skin
into small rivulets.

Under my hands
the point of her elbow
becomes a rudder.
I notice her spine,
bent cane,
sticking up from her damp blouse,
split hull down the middle,
sloped and curved upward,
as steep as the incline we walk.

Pumice and ash make way
for minced patter
and swollen ankles.
She insists we see the volcano,
at a safe distance above lava channels.

The eastern sky rising
as powdery as the wings of moths,
flickering against hot spots,
burnt up with desire and hurt.

The basin's bitter crust buckled
a millennium ago,
now once again prodded,
emanates rose petals,
hollyhocks on her withered cheek,
and on mine,
our flesh melted
under the heat of magma,
our cheeks young again
under one black umbrella.